


Like an Old-Fashioned Waltz

by schweet_heart



Series: Avengers Fic [6]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: M/M, Nostalgia, Oblivious!Steve, Pining, Resolved Sexual Tension, Steve's first dance, gratuitous fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 17:21:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/624653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweet_heart/pseuds/schweet_heart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not a date. They're not together. Tony is not a romantic and he does not want to kiss Steve Rogers. Tony may also be really bad at lying to himself, but that's okay, because Steve has that part covered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like an Old-Fashioned Waltz

**Author's Note:**

> This whole thing started because I had a silly little head-canon about Steve having met Frank Sinatra once and teasing Tony with the information (I may or may not have bent history a bit to make that work...). Then several of my favourite fanon cliches got in on the act and the result was basically this piece of concentrated fluff.

It's not a date, okay, it's just the two of them, best friends spending time together in between saving the world. Tony's been on dates before – a lot of them – but he's never spent this long making sure that everything is just perfect, from the gently chilled champagne to the angle of his tie. He's nervous, and oh hey, that's a new and not entirely welcome surprise, but he's excited, too, because it's the first time in a long time that he's had Steve all to himself. There are no world-ending catastrophes looming on the horizon, no Avengers and no SHIELD to interfere, and it is entirely for that reason and no other that he's actually pacing in the hall when Steve arrives, nearly jumping out of his skin when he rounds the corner.

 

“Whoa,” Steve says, holding up his hands. “I come in peace.”

 

Tony lets out his breath.

 

“Sorry. Little jumpy,” he says, the little knot of tension in his stomach easing at Steve's answering smile. “You look nice.”

  
Steve glances down at himself self-consciously. Tony had told him to wear something “old-timey,” which turned out to mean a cleanly pressed shirt, pants and suspenders. It's perfect, but of course Steve doesn't know that, so he just says “Thank you,” in a bemused voice. Tony rolls his eyes.

 

“Come on, there's something I want to show you.”

 

“Just so that we're clear, this _is_ the good sort of surprise, right? I'm not going to be attacked by out-of-control robots or something?”

 

“That was _one time_ ,” Tony says, offended. “And Dummy wasn't attacking you, he just thought you were on fire. It was a genuine misunderstanding.”

 

“Uh huh,” Steve's mouth twitches, but he lets himself be dragged along the corridor to the sitting room, and Tony tries to ignore how much he wants to stop and kiss that smirk right off his face. “So, what are we – “

 

He stops abruptly in the doorway, and Tony turns back to watch him, the way his expression changes as he takes in the room. Steve is a horrible liar and a worse actor; everything he feels is written all over his face, and much as he might not like to admit it Tony can't bring himself to look away as he waits for the ultimate verdict.

 

“It's...” Steve stops, swallows. “Wow. Did you do all this for me?”

 

Tony had transformed the room into a 1930s bar scene, complete with ancient gramophone, a pile of records and the dark and smoky atmosphere. There's also Dummy, looking slightly ridiculous in an old-fashioned hat and apron, standing behind the shiny wooden counter polishing a glass, and above them an authentic chandelier flickers and glows, bathing the room in a dim light.

 

It's not romantic, exactly, but it's close to it.

 

“Do you like it?” Tony asks, trying to keep the teasing note in his voice but knowing he's failing. It doesn't matter; as long as Steve keeps looking at him like _that_ , he finds he really doesn't mind that hisfeelings, too, are spilling out all over the place.

 

“Like it? It's amazing. It's absolutely incredible. Where did you find all this stuff?”

 

“Oh, here and there.” Tony waves a hand. He'd scoured the internet, the antique rooms, auction-houses and even museums, but Steve doesn't need to know that. “I thought you might enjoy a bit of nostalgia on your birthday, for once.”

 

Steve's eyes are shining, and it's not just from the chandelier. It looks like he's lost the power of speech. Tony leaves him to have his moment, instead crossing the room and selecting a song. Frank Sinatra's rich, mellow voice fills the room, crooning the familiar lyrics of _I've Got You Under My Skin_. It struck him as the most apropos.

 

“You probably didn't get to hear this guy sing,” he calls over his shoulder. “He was a little after your time, I think.”

 

“No, he sounds familiar,” Steve says, apparently getting over his paralysis. He moves further into the room, still looking around like it's some kind of fucking wonderland, and Tony would have done this ages ago if he had known it would make him so happy. “The Hoboken Four? I remember hearing them perform back in '37. Didn't he go on to become really popular?”

 

Tony stops to stare at him.

 

“You're joking.”

 

“No?” Steve frowns at him. “No, I'm pretty sure it's the same voice. He was very good; Bucky and I went behind the scenes after the show to congratulate him.”

 

“Get outta town. You actually _met_ Frank Sinatra?”

 

“Was that his name?”

 

“I hate you,” Tony says, without rancor. “He's only one of the greatest singers of his generation.”

 

Steve just smiles, shaking his head. “I suppose I should feel privileged.”

 

“Damn straight.”

 

They're looking at each other, both of them grinning for no reason at all, and suddenly Tony has to swallow back a wave of – what? Something bittersweet. He licks his lips and drops his gaze, trying to ignore the hollow sensation in the centre of his chest. There's really nothing to be sad about.

  
“Tony?” Steve says, his voice soft. “What is it?”

 

Tony just shakes his head.

 

“Dance with me,” he says impulsively.

 

“What? No, I--”

 

“Come on. It's just me. Can't be all that scary, can it?”

 

Steve laughs, a sound that Tony can feel right down to his belly. “You're terrifying,” he says, low.

 

“I promise to keep my hands to myself. Come on.”

 

And, wonder of wonders, Steve gives in, shrugging his shoulders and stepping into Tony's embrace. It's – weird, and amazing, and hot beyond all measure, and Tony finds it difficult to keep his promise as the two of them sway to the music. Steve smells so good, vanilla and all-spice, like some kind of grandmother's kitchen or something, and it shouldn't be so sexy except that it is, because it smells like _home_ , like something he doesn't remember ever having before.

 

“I don't actually know how to dance,” Steve murmurs, his cheek close to Tony's hair.

 

“You're doing fine.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

Instead of answering, Tony dips him, and Steve laughs, retaliating as soon as he's back on his feet by spinning Tony out so fast he gets a little dizzy. And it's not romantic, not really, it's just two best friends goofing off together after a hard day, but it still makes Tony's heart ache as if it were some kind of ridiculous unrequited love affair.

 

“Happy birthday,” he blurts, which isn't even close to what he wants to say, but it will have to do. “I know it's not until tomorrow, but the others wanted to throw you their own surprise party, which, by the way, you aren't supposed to know about so act surprised, and you know how those things always end up being interrupted by the villain du jour so I figured if I wanted to actually get to give you your present in peace I'd have to do it early.”

 

Steve stops dancing and looks down at him, his eyebrows raised. “Wait, you mean this isn't my present?”

 

“No. Well, not entirely. Hang on, wait here.” Dropping Steve's hand, Tony steps away from him to duck behind the bar, where he had hidden the evening's _piece de resistance_ earlier that afternoon. He pulls it out, a large, rectangular-shaped package wrapped in brown paper, in keeping with the old-fashioned theme, and hands it to Steve. “This is for you.”

 

While Steve unwraps it, a quizzical expression on his face, Tony helps himself to a glass of champagne and sips quietly, watching Steve out of the corner of his eye. As soon as the first layer comes off it's easy for Steve to see what the package contains, and Tony can pinpoint the precise moment the realisation dawns because he goes utterly, utterly still and Tony feels a chill come over him, like he'd swallowed the entire contents of the ice bucket whole.

 

“That's what gave me the idea, actually,” Tony babbles, and Christ, his chest is actually really _hurting_ now, the breath caught tight and painful in his throat. “For the room, I mean. Clint was all for having a Star Wars themed party, but I told him the futuristic thing was over and retro is all the rage right now. Natasha backed me up. I think she just wanted to avoid being stuck in a Princess Leia bikini but don't tell her I said that...Of course, Bruce was worried it might trigger some bad juju for you but it hasn't, right? Has it? Steve, say something.”

 

“Tony, I – ” Steve takes a deep breath. “How did you find this?”

 

“My dad had it. I don't think he realised what it was – I found it under some old blueprints, and as soon as I saw it I knew...” He trails off, shrugging one shoulder. “You have a distinctive style.”

 

Steve doesn't seem to have heard. He unwraps the last of the parcel and with care bordering on reverence turns the sketch-pad over in his hands, not saying a word, and Tony takes another swig of champagne, wondering if he's managed to fuck things up completely. Maybe Bruce had been right, maybe Steve still wasn't over the past and never would be. Maybe he just wanted to move on.

 

“You can, uh, donate it to a museum or something if you want,” he says awkwardly, when the silence stretches on to unbearable lengths. “I mean, you don't have to keep it.”

 

“What?” Finally, Steve looks at him, blinking like he's waking up from a dream. “Don't be silly, Tony, of course I want to keep it, I – thank you – I don't...I just don't know what to say. You're amazing.”

 

“Well, that goes without saying,” Tony jokes, breathing out again. The tension in his chest loosens a little as Steve smiles, beckoning to him.

 

“Come here, it's my turn to show you something.”

 

Tony obeys dutifully, setting down his champagne and stepping in close to peer past Steve's shoulder as he flips open the sketchbook. It had been an act of almost superhuman selflessness to refrain from looking through it when it had first come into his hands – the temptation had been overwhelming, especially because he'd seen examples of Steve's work before, all depicting tantalizing fragments from his life in the past. Now, it appeared that he was going to be rewarded for his restraint.

 

“They're not very good,” Steve says shyly, not looking at Tony as he flicks through the first few pages. “I wasn't – I didn't always have the right materials, and I kept getting called away in the middle of things, so sometimes I had to finish up from memory...”

 

“Are you kidding? These are brilliant,” Tony says, for once completely sincere. He knows enough about art to know that Steve is not the bumbling amateur he tries to convince people he is; the lines of the drawings are crisp and clear, the sketches full of vitality despite being over seventy years old. Unable to help himself, he leans into Steve's shoulder, deliberately not noticing how easy it would be just to reach out and kiss him, and touches the careful shading of a ferris wheel gently with one finger. “You know these are brilliant, right?”

 

Steve's cheeks are flushed. “Don't be silly, it's just a few doodles I did to pass the time...”

 

“ _A few doodles_?” Tony's voice rises with his incredulity. “Rogers, you are something else.”

 

Steve just shakes his head at him, a tiny, v-shaped frown between his brows that Tony recognises from when Steve is genuinely confused about something. His reaction is so familiar and so predictable that Tony can't help laughing at it, turning without forethought to nuzzle against Steve's cheek, his eyes closing as he marvels at the sheer _Steve-ness_ of that expression.

 

It happens so naturally that it takes Steve's sudden catch of breath before he realises what he's done; then his eyes fly open, and they're staring at each other across two inches of space, two stupid deer caught in the headlights of the thing they've been dancing around for months but have so far managed to successfully ignore.

 

“Um,” Tony says, helpless. He can't tell what's going on in Steve's head, behind the shocked-rabbit stare – he only knows that his own hands are fisted against Steve's shirt and there's something uncomfortably huge in his stomach, like a storm of butterflies battering its way out. “I'm sorry?”

 

Steve shakes his head, and Tony thinks, _this is it, it's over_ , but he just puts the sketchbook on the countertop and turns so that they're face to face.

 

“Maybe we should talk,” he says quietly.

 

“...okay?”

 

Steve is smiling, just a little, and Tony tries to take this as a good sign. Maybe it won't be so bad. It was only a small mistake, after all. “I guess I figured you already knew,” Steve says. “And I'm – I'm really grateful that you're okay with it, that you never treated me any differently or made a big deal out of it. But – Tony, you can't just...do something like this, act the way you do...and expect me not to think...”

 

And, okay. It's good that at least one of them's a genius, because apparently Steve is going off on his own little tangent about the fine line between teasing and cruelty and _he doesn't know it's mutual_ , the fuck, how is that even possible, so Tony does the only honourable thing and shuts him up by showing him just how mutual the feeling is, darting in to kiss him soundly on the lips before he can even finish his sentence.

 

If anything, Steve looks even more displeased. “Tony, this isn't funny – “

 

So Tony kisses him again, long enough and deep enough that Steve stops trying to talk and just holds on, his fingers curling over Tony's collar and brushing against his neck, and when he's certain the Captain is well and truly silenced Tony steps back, not without a degree of reluctance, to study his face – every stupid, familiar, beautiful, _irritating_ inch of it.

 

“You're an idiot,” he pronounces, finally. “I can't believe they let you lead armies in the war, they must have been desperate or insane or both.”

 

“It was a commando unit, not an army,” Steve says. “And how come _I'm_ the idiot? You're the one who never said anything.”

 

“I thought we had an agreement!” Tony exclaims, throwing his hands in the air. “I thought you knew how I felt, but didn't want to do anything about it because of the team, or some ridiculously old-fashioned moral reason. Excuse me for giving your intelligence too much credit.”

 

Steve is laughing, damn him, his head tipped back and the long line of his neck exposed in the half-light, and Tony has to fight hard to hold onto any shred of indignation he has left because wow, he really wants to be kissing that throat right now.

 

“Do you mean to tell me I've been sitting here _pining_ because I thought you were being noble and self-sacrificing when all the time _you_ thought I wasn't interested?” he demands, tearing his eyes away from Steve's Adam's apple with an effort. “For fuck's sake, Rogers, if my balls turn permanently blue and drop off because of you – “

 

“Shut up, Tony,” Steve finally manages to say, reeling him in by the front of his shirt. “You're ruining the moment.”

 

And fine, so maybe it is romantic, just a bit, with the candlelight and the soft music and Steve's hands cupping his face like he still can't believe he's allowed to touch it, and Tony admits somewhere in the privacy of his own mind that his subconscious really isn't as subtle as it likes to believe, but then Steve's mouth is on his and coherent thought takes a backseat for a while, so it isn't until later that he concludes this is straight up the most romantic moment of his life. Well, in the top ten, anyway.

 

Fortunately, he also finds that he doesn't mind the idea so much after all.


End file.
